Planes, Trains and 18 Wheelers

I loved "Planes, Trains and Automobiles," the 1987 comedy starring Steve Martin and John Candy. My son, Owen, has loved trains for many years, and recently has become enamored of plane spotting. But I think at 12 he's a little young to watch this R-rated film.

I thought of the movie after watching Owen over the last several days bounce out of the house with his camera every time he hears a plane overhead. He snaps pictures, and then zooms in on the screen to see what type of plane, and what carrier. If he can't tell, he can always check the radar app on his phone. It's pretty amazing how technology has made easy what surely used to be an exercise in futility, as plane spotters would have to buy trade magazines, visit the public library to check through Encyclopedia Brittanicas, hack into air traffic control or spend loads of money on telephoto lenses for their cameras.

Owen and I have traveled to South Boston's Castle Island a few times in recent weeks to watch planes take off and land at Logan Airport. The planes are so low, you can almost hear people complaining about having to turn off their electronic devices.

And of course the two of us have traveled countless miles on Boston's subway system over the last several years, and driven far and wide so he can take pictures and videos of commuter, Amtrak and freight trains.

Sometimes I wonder, "How can he enjoy looking at the same planes and trains over and over?" Then I harken back to when I was his age, and obsessed with semi trucks and boogie vans.

Here's how I described my fascination with 18-wheelers in the road trip memoir I've been working on for the past two years:

I knew Peterbilts from Kenworths, Macks from Internationals. I liked conventionals better than cabovers. During my bus ride to junior high school every day my heart skipped a beat when I saw the gleaming red-white-and-blue tractor with the double sleeper sitting in the parking lot of a factory in the center of my town.

I would ride my bike, sometimes alone, other times with my buddy Pat and his younger brother Bryan, about half a mile to the main drag through my hometown and anxiously wait for big rigs to drive by. When I spotted one, I'd give the signal for the driver to blow his air horn, and whoop it up whenever they complied.

Spotting trucks was my favorite game while on family road trips.

One time, I had my mother drive me about 10 miles into Granby, so I could take a picture of a Peterbilt that I'd noticed on a previous drive. Here's the picture:

I still keep an eye out for big trucks when I'm on the highway.

Around this time, ages 11-13, I discovered custom vans. I bought magazines and ogled the tricked-out rides (and bikini babes), and looked for boogie vans wherever I went. Connecticut's Farmington Valley wasn't exactly a hotbed of vintage vans with waterbeds, wet bars, fur-covered steering wheels and murals straight off the cover of Heavy Metal magazine, but I saw a few here and there.

On a family trip out West in 1977, when I was 12, I snapped the picture below in Salt Lake City.

I guess it's no surprise that in 1988, when I was almost 23 and nearly a year out of college, I bought a van with my buddy Andy. We got it into running shape, but didn't have the money to remodel the inside to look a celebrity's living room, or hire somebody to paint a scantily clad Amazon riding a war steed on the side.

We slapped a Grateful Dead sticker on the front before picking up my friends Pete and John and going on a four-month road trip.

I got rid of the van a long time ago. The Greater Boston area, where I've lived for the past 20+ years, is thin on old custom vans, unlike Southern California. But I still love seeing an old boogie van, or watching Fu Manchu fans' homemade videos once in a while to rekindle my passion.

Yesterday, one of my neighbors asked Owen if he wanted to be a pilot or train engineer when he grows up. He said he wasn't sure. Chances are he won't be either of those things, but I'd put odds on the fact that he'll have a passion for planes and trains for the rest of his life.

Cloning

Driving home from Connecticut last weekend I saw gold everywhere along the highway.

In the woods, buried under generations of leaves. Scattered across the fields, hidden 'neath the soil. Even deep below the foundations of houses.

I found myself wishing for a metal detector, or at least a very good and magical shovel. And some clones, so I could be everywhere at once, digging in my backyard; exploring sites in my hometown in Connecticut, with which I've become newly fascinated with in recent months; stopping at random points in any town or city and taking pictures, poking around for pieces of history, learning as much as I can.

I've long had a fascination for archaeology, for ancient and not-so-ancient history. I also love old buildings, whether in good condition, or in a state of ramshackleness. I post about these sorts of things on my other blog, The Backside of America.

As a kid I collected coins, a hobby that began when I was digging in the dirt at the field complex where I played Little League baseball. I found a Mercury dime, something I'd never seen before. Soon I was poking through my piggy bank, my father's coin wallet, his box of stuff from his Army stint in Europe, looking for cool old coins. My Grandma Jo helped me by sending along old pennies and special sleeves to store them in.

I had a brief stint as a bottle cap collector, as well. I would scour the parking lot of the school behind my house where the hoods drank beer, blasted loud music and tinkered with their muscle cars at night and on weekends. I walked along the railroad tracks looking for caps to add to my collection, which I housed in a shoe box.

Now I take photos of rusting cars, abandoned railroad tracks, hulking old factories covered in graffiti and the like. But I feel like that's not enough. I want artifacts. I want to dig in the earth and discover old coins, buttons, arrowheads and pottery sherds (I prefer "shards," but anything I read in archaeology publications uses "sherds").

I've been volunteering at the local branch of the National Archives, which satisfies my history jones somewhat. But I long to get involved in a real dig. I found out that the City of Boston has an archaeology program that welcomes volunteers. I may check that out.

I subscribe to American Archaeology, a magazine published by the New Mexico-based Archaeological Conservancy. They offer various tours throughout North America, and one day I'm going to join one.

In the meantime, I'm committed to taking pictures to preserve pieces of history before they disappear. And I really want to get my kids involved at some level, so they'll gain an appreciation for the past.

It's not glamorous, but it sure looks like fun. And I dig that WBUR used a Consonant song for this clip.